Those Around in Hospital
I enjoyed the nurses. None spoke much English, but we managed to communicate with few problems. Most seemed to be advancing their education, as they were studying in their spare time. Some had a pretty good sense of humor and all had a ready smile.
Shylaja was a bit of a card. When she first came into the room, she marched up to my bed, hands on hips, and said, “From where?”
“Canada.”
“I go Canada you,” and then indicated she was kidding.
At least, I think that was what she meant. On the other hand, if I had said, “OK,” she might have taken me seriously.
As Sandra mentioned earlier, there is an extra bed for an “attendant,” or family member, to stay with the patient. This is optional but, as it soon became obvious, was expected. I was often asked, “Where is your wife?” I kept things simple by trying to explain that she was not feeling well and went home to sleep.
The fact of the matter was she was pretty stressed, and staying all night in the hospital with me, with the interruptions starting early in the morning, I felt it best that she try to get as much sleep as possible so that she wouldn’t get sick. Furthermore, there were no screens on the windows and, the way mosquitoes can find her from miles away, would have meant we would have been plagued all night long. (As it was, I only had to kill one or two a night, bloated with my blood.)
Most days, when I was leaving for a stroll around the grounds, I would have to wade through about 15 younger med students. The instructor, whose English was good, would bring them there for a few hours each day for some real-world instruction.
And, then, there were the other patients. I appeared to be the least damaged of the lot. Only one other guy was walking around more than a little, and he was breathing through a hole in his neck, having had a tracheotomy, and I know what THAT is like.
A couple of doors down was a woman who was not doing well at all. She would often moan with each breath. A couple days after my operation, I noticed a lot of her family around and outside her door, looking very upset. Some were crying.
That afternoon, I was reclining on one of the beds with one of the nurses administering a feeding, when one of the men I had noticed earlier wandered into my room. I could see he was upset, as he went to the chair and sat down. Not feeling that any usual greeting would be appropriate, and not being sure of his understanding of English, I just nodded and said nothing. He finally started on the usual questions. “From which country?” “What is your good name?” Then he lapsed into silence, staring vacantly at the floor.
When the nurse left, he started talking in broken English and with many lapses into long silences. I was able to understand that the woman was one of his four sisters, the eldest of which had already died of cancer. He indicated that she wasn’t going to make it. I tried to express my sympathies and said that I would pray for her, but he didn’t really seem to acknowledge it. After more time went by, he got up and left. As he did so, I noticed he was a bit unsteady on his feet, so he may have been using alcohol to deaden the pain.
I didn’t ask the nurses about her, due to an attack of Western inhibition about minding one’s own business. As I think about it now, I am sure they would have told anything I wanted to know, as people here seem to have no such restraints.
One tends to forget how much pain and suffering is going on in this world, until one is slapped in the face with it yet another time.
Two families appeared to be of Tibetan origin, and we have learned there are lots of them in the area. Most came as refugees and are trying to make a life here.
I mentioned above that I was reclining on the bed while being fed. The nurses are short, and I doubt if many even hit 5 feet high, which is typical of most South Indian women. In order to get good drainage through the feeding tube, it helps to lift the end with the syringe as high as possible. It is a hassle to insert the plunger, jamb it down, kink the tube to prevent back-flow, remove the syringe, yard out the plunger, and reinsert the syringe into the end of the tube in preparation for the next 20 cc load. It is easier to let gravity pull the stuff through the tube. Of course, if there is a little lump, which there often is, then one has to resort to the plunger.
There isn’t much for families staying with patients to do here. The wife of the guy with the hole in his throat spent most of her time sitting against the rail next to the courtyard outside his room. She would sometimes wander around, and often stopped at my door, especially if Sandra was with me, and would lean casually against the frame and look at us; around the room; back at us, and smile. She seemed to speak no English. In fact, I am not sure I heard her speak at all.
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